


song of solomon 4:7

by fideliter



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Body Worship, Oral Sex, Other, Second person POV, Vague Spoilers, ambiguous deputy, bible verses in the bedroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14222670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliter/pseuds/fideliter
Summary: Through God, he says, everything is possible. And Joseph will not stop until you believe it, until you know it, right down to your bones. And maybe, just maybe, you’re well on your way.





	song of solomon 4:7

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the "good" ending! 
> 
> I finally finished the game so I went back and fixed this up 8)

The world outside the bunker is beyond you now.

Hellfire reigns, Joseph’s prophecies coming true in a storm of chaos and ruin. The Gate has closed, and with it, has shut you in here. With _him_. Time slows to a crawl, an endless parade; hours and days and weeks bleed together in a way that isn't quite functional. But this is your life now and besides the sterile grey walls and stale air, Joseph is the only other constant.  
He, at his very core, is still a preacher. He sits quietly, head bowed, for hours on end, as if he's still at worship. As if he can still hear the sins of his Children, from beyond the bunker. He was their shepherd once, their absolution - but there is no longer any _them._

It is only the two of you now, a Father and his Lamb, a King and a Rook.

It doesn't stop him much, and even though he’s long since taken the handcuffs off, he continues to talk. _Preach._ Sometimes he tells stories of his siblings, sometimes he cuts himself off halfway through. Infrequently he talks about himself, before he became a father and _the_ Father; mostly, he talks about _you_. His hopes and dreams for you, spawned from the first time he laid eyes on you in that church. The way his opinion had warped and changed, as you carved your way through the Project and Hope County. Mostly, he talks about you _now_ \- how you were always meant to end up here, in this bunker, with him.

The two of you together, forever, amen

Through God, he says, everything is possible. And Joseph will not stop until you believe it, until you _know_ it to be true, right down to your very bones. And maybe, just maybe, you're well on your way.

–

(And, certainly, these _prayer sessions_ help ease you forward.)

\--  
He sits close to your bed, knees pressing against the thread-bare mattress. Watching you, watching _over_ you. It always starts like this, the quiet prayers he murmurs - for you, for him, for the world inside these four walls – filling up the space between you. They echo throughout the entire bunker, and you’re _sure_ they can hear it above ground, over the sound of the world burning.

Eventually, though, he cannot content himself with prayers. God moves his hand, moves his body - and soon Joseph drapes himself over you. The bed frame creaks as he moves, pressing against you like morning benediction.  
Fingers brush across your flesh, sensation lingering in their wake. The way he touches you - reverent, despite everything - sends shivers down your spine, shuddering against the mattress. Slow and steady, Joseph goes at his own pace, no matter how you whine and press your body forward. 

The world has already ended, after all, so there's no need to rush, not anymore. 

Instead, he goes easy as you please, watching you from heavy-lidded eyes as he slips the clothes from your body. Threadbare fabric falls away easily; he’s had plenty of practice at this. _”Easy_ , he says as you whine, craving more than he’s willing to give you at this exact moment. God says to be patient, and so you must be.

His eyes never once waiver from your own, even as you lay bare before him, using each twitch and moan against you - pressing harder where you gasp, tracing along still-healing scars for the way it makes you jerk. He keeps you pinned there, by the heaviness of his gaze and weight; you feel pinned underneath it, the way he looks at you.

You're the Destruction, you're the Creation; you are his, you are his, you are his.

Hands trail downward, palms spreading across flesh. _“I will give thanks to you,”_ he murmurs into the soft skin of your abdomen. Muscles clench as warm breath washes over you, even as he inches further down. Presses a kiss to each hip bone, laves his tongue across the _Wrath_ etched into your flesh. It’s healed ugly, sin still red after all this time, but he treats it like a masterpiece.

 _“You are altogether beautiful,”_ he says into the apex of your thighs, lips just brushing against where you are wet and wanting. All the while, he stares up at you, watching as you fall apart as he does it again, and again, and again.

When he finally presses his mouth to heated flesh, a hand spread across each thigh, you cry out - filling the bunker with the sound of it. There is nothing but Joseph Seed and the way he kneels at the altar of _you_ ; absolution found between the thighs of a sinner. He works against you, stubble rubbing against your inner thighs, and you lose yourself in the sensation of it. The way he murmurs against you, continuing whatever bible verse he's been quoting in between swirling his tongue in a way that makes your bones absolutely _ache_.

Like always, it doesn't take him long to take you apart. Brick by brick, plank by plank, he tears up the foundation of your self-control, brings you closer and closer to the end. Suddenly, inevitably, you tumble off the edge - crying out as you see _stars_. Joseph never stops, riding out each shudder and reveling in each gasp, each whine. He keeps going until you writhe, overstimulation setting your nerves alight. Then and only then does he pull back, face slick with the proof of your devotion. 

Easily he shifts his weight forward and _up_ , pressing a chaste kiss to the side of your mouth. He lets it linger, happy to breathe in _you_. It's grounding and strangely intimate, and it causes your heart to clench tightly in your chest. _“There is no blemish to you,”_ he finishes, voice and eyes glassy - breathing even and unlabored. He seems unaffected by everything but his own gospel, even as you cling to _anything_ that isn't the way he looks at you.

Like you’re the beginning and the end. Like you’re actually _worth_ something. 

You reach out a shaky hand, slowly pressing your open palm against his cheek. He blinks, slowly, and offers you a smile – the kind that makes your insides clench.

_“No blemish to you, and my soul knows it well.”_

_Hallelujah,_ amen.

**Author's Note:**

> song of solomon 4:7:
> 
> _You are altogether beautiful, my love;_  
>  there is no flaw in you.


End file.
